 | Francis the First |  |
SCENE I.
—AN APARTMENT IN THE CHATEAU-DE-FOIX.Françoise is discovered sitting, pale and motionless, by a table—Florise is kneeling by her.
FRANÇOISE.
How heavily the sun hangs in the clouds,—
The day will ne'er be done.
FLORISE.
Oh, lady, thou hast sat
And watch'd the western clouds, day after day,
Grow crimson with the sun's farewell, and said,
Each day, the night will never come: yet night
Hath come at last, and so it will again.
FRANÇOISE.
Will it, indeed! will the night come at last,
And hide that burning sun, and shade my eyes,
Which ache with this red light—will darkness come
At last?
FLORISE.
Sweet madam, yes; and sleep will come:
Nay, shake not mournfully your head at me,—
Your eyes are heavy; sleep is brooding in them.
FRANÇOISE.
Hot tears have lain in them, and made them heavy;
But sleep—oh, no! no, no! they will not close:
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Guilt, thou liest heavy, and art hard to bear.
FLORISE.
What say you, madam, guilt!
FRANÇOISE.
Who dare say so!
(Starting up)
'Twas pity,—mercy,—'twas not guilt! and though
The world's fierce scorn shall call it infamy,
I say 'twas not! Speak,—speak,—dost thou? Oh! answer me!
Say, was it infamy?
FLORISE.
Dear lady, you are ill!
Some strange distemper severs thus your brain.
Come, madam, suffer me at least to bind
These tresses that have fallen o'er your brow,
Making your temples throb with added weight:
Let me bind up these golden locks that hang
Dishevell'd thus upon your neck.
FRANÇOISE.
Out, viper!
Nor twine, nor braid, again shall ever bind
These locks! Oh! rather tear them off, and cast them
Upon the common earth, and trample them,—
Heap dust and ashes on them,—tear them thus,
And thus, and thus! Oh, Florise, I am mad!
Distracted!—out alas! alas! poor head!
Thou achest for thy pillow in the grave,—
Thy darksome couch,—thy dreamless, quiet bed!
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These frantic passions do destroy themselves
With their excess, and well it is they do so:
But, madam, now the tempest is o'erlaid,
And you are calmer, better, as I trust,
Let me entreat you send for that same monk
I told you of this morn: he is a leech,
Learned in theory, and of wondrous skill
To heal all maladies of soul or body.
FRANÇOISE.
Of soul—of soul—ay, so they'd have us think:
Dost thou believe that the hard coin we pour
Into their outstretch'd hands, indeed, buys pardon
For all, or any sin, we may commit?
Dost thou believe forgiveness may be had
Thus easy cheap, for crimes as black in hue
As—as—
FLORISE.
As what? I know no sin whatever
The church's minister may not remit:
As—what were you about to say?
FRANÇOISE.
Come hither;
Think'st thou a heap of gold as high as Etna
Could cover from the piercing eye of heaven
So foul a crime as—as—adultery?
Why dost thou stare thus strangely at my words,
And answerest not?
FLORISE.
I do believe, indeed,
Not all the treasury of the wide world,
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Can ransom sin—nothing but deep repentance—
Austere and lengthened penance—frequent tears.
FRANÇOISE.
'Tis false! I know it—these do nought avail:
To move relentless heav'n it must be brib'd.
And yet—go, call thy priest; I'll speak with him.
I will cast off the burthen of my shame,
Or ere it press me down into the grave!
[Exit.
FLORISE.
Alas, poor flow'r, the canker's in thy core!
Enter Gonzales.
Good morrow to my reverend confessor!
GONZALES.
Good morrow, maiden;
Where's thy lady, Florise?
FLORISE.
This moment, as I think, gone to her chamber.
GONZALES.
To sleep, perchance!
FLORISE.
Oh, father, would she could!
But there's a sleepless sorrow at her heart,—
She hath not clos'd her eyes for many a night.
GONZALES.
Her brother, Lautrec, for the loss of Milan,
Was lately thrust in prison.
FLORISE.
Even so:
And at that very time a messenger
Arriv'd with news of that most dire mischance,
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She often read a scroll Count Lautrec sent her,
And wept, and read it o'er and o'er again;
And then, as though determin'd by its arguments,
She sought the king, to move him to forgiveness:
Short space elapsed ere home she came again,
Thus broken-hearted, and, as I do think,
Bow'd to the grave by some o'ermastering sorrow.
GONZALES.
'Tis a strange tale: but tell me now, Florise,
Where's her young lord, John de Laval? methought
It was agreed on with her brother, who
Disposes of his sister's hand and fortune,
That, soon as this Italian war permitted,
Laval should hasten back again to France,
And claim the Lady Françoise as his bride.
Was it not so?
FLORISE.
Ay; and I've sometimes thought
That the Count's absence was my lady's grief.
I fear this last campaign hath ended him,
And that he'll ne'er come back to wed his bride,
Who mourns his loss, and fades a virgin widow.
Out on my prating tongue! I had forgot—
The lady Françoise straight would speak with you.
GONZALES.
With me—with me! What, Florise, dost thou think
That she hath aught she would confess?—no matter;
Tell her I'll wait upon her instantly.
[Exit Florise.
Strange! passing strange! I guess at it in vain.
Lautrec forgiv'n, and herself broken-hearted!
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'Tis sure he lov'd her—oh, that it were so!
Oh, that his passion had forestall'd my vengeance!
That love in him had done the deed my hate
Most covets!—An I had not worn so long
This monkish garb, and all uncourtly seeming,
Methinks for such an end I could have done
All that disuse hath made unnatural
And strange to me: acted the fool again;
Conn'd o'er youth's love tale; sued, implor'd, intreated,
And won her, but that I might give her back
Defil'd unto Laval!—would it were so!
I'll to her straight, and from her wring confession
By such keen torture, as designless looks
And careless words inflict on secret guilt.
[Exit.
| Francis the First | |